


Little Ghost - WIP

by nevergaveacare



Category: Original Work
Genre: Altered Mental States, Delusions, Horror, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Other, Psychological Horror, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, major character death here refers to my poor bby's delusions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevergaveacare/pseuds/nevergaveacare





	1. 1

**_ 1. _ **

 

Dark. Cold. Quiet.

 

Friend.

 

Bright. Hot. Roaring.

 

Two extremes. One night. Only a few hours.

Big house was gone now. All ash. All alone.

Quiet again.

Then loud. People. Lights. Busy. Fear. Pain. Dark. Everyone gone. Cold. Tight. Alone.

More extremes.

 

Friend.

 

Appeared in the dark. From the shadows. Friend was back. Boy spoke. Not to doctors. To Friend. Only Friend.

  
   
---  
  
 

 

He kicked as he was taken from the room. The room was bad. But the rest was worse. Always questions. He never spoke. Never told them. Couldn't tell them. Wouldn't. They’d tell on him. Tell all the secrets. Secrets stay secret. That’s why they’re secrets.

He knew the way. Knew where he was going. Clever boy. Not like doctors said. Long hall, all white. Turn. Stairs. Down, down, down. Dark now. Not many lamps. Small. Damp. The crackle. Panic. He screamed, writhed, kicked for freedom, desperate to break the doctors’ hold on him. Please. Please. Please. No. No room. No crackle. Bad. Bad. Hurt. No!

The chair. Cold and sturdy. Quick breaths, boy was scared. No more hurt. Please no more hurt.

Strapped down, tight leather pressed into old bruises, bringing old pain back to life.

The questions started.

“Are you going to talk today?”

“Don’t think he can.”

“What happened at your house?”

“Do you remember?”

“If you tell us, we can make you better.”

All remained unanswered. Couldn’t tell. Friend said no. Doctor’s know Bad. They’ll tell. Bad will come.

He tries to shake his head, but it’s already clamped. He can’t move. The electrodes come. Then the crackle.

  
  
---  
  
No. No. No!

 

Screams. Then silence. The world went black.

 

 


	2. 2

**_ 2. _ **

 

He woke back in the room. Alone again.

“Friend?” A whispered question escaped cracked lips, sticky with blood.

The shadows trembled, shifted. Low clicking came from the amassing shadow shape. Friend was back.

“Friend!” Happy, his eyes lit up as he watched his friend’s ears twitch. The creature took the form of an elongated rabbit, stretched to almost seven feet tall on his hind legs, terrifying to most. The pale boy however, ran to the creature, throwing his arms around the skeletal being.

“Boy hurt?” Friend’s voice rasped, a heavy whisper, like a heavy chair dragged across wooden a floor. “Boy..?” The worry was obvious in the creature’s voice, he cared, really cared about the boy.

“Hurt…” The boy whispered, pained, tired, “Hurts.” He tapped his temples carefully, fingers returning sticky with coagulated blood, reopening fresh burn wounds. Shouldn’t have touched. New pain. Hot. Burning.

| 

 

   
  
---  
   
  
“Don’t touch… boy hurt.” Slender white finger’s covered the boy’s own, guiding them down away from the injuries at his temples. Taking the boy into his arms, Friend sat back, his movements jagged, as if he were only able to move a little at a time. Low humming emitted from the rooms shadows, a soft melody, lulling the boy to sleep against his protector’s inhuman body.


	3. 3

**_ 3. _ **

**__ **

_The house creaked in the darkness, walls spilling secrets, secrets that should never be heard. Silence consumed all else, stillness spread through the halls with the setting sun, not a soul stirred._

_Then, the patter of feet. Quiet, almost unheard on thick carpets, sound swallowed by thread. He had to get away. They were here. They had come for him._

_The shadows groaned and shifted, black tendrils spilling out across the floor, climbing curtains, extinguishing any light unlucky enough to remain. The attic door swung open, crashing against the wall. The floorboards ripped open, tearing splintered wood apart. The ground rumbled as the owner of the hand crawled from the black, a dark creature, skeletal, and ashen. Its eyes glowed red in its featureless face and an inhuman screech tore open a mouth filled with jagged black shards. Where hands should be the creature had only a scalpel and a syringe moulded from its charred flesh._

|    


   
  
---  
  
_Without warning, it ran._

_Sprinting down corridors, its hellish appendages ripped through heavily papered walls, destroying the houses’ grandeur. It hunted. Its elongated head oscillating as it searched for its prize._

_The footsteps on the carpets grew faster, panicked, desperate. Running from the creature. Running for safety._

_“Fire.”_

_A voice from nowhere. A guiding angel? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He had his answer. Fire._

_The drawing room. The fireplace. He had to get there. He had to make it. The doorway was right there. Right in front of him. He was only feet away from salvation._

_Pain. Searing. Hot across his back. He heard cotton tear, felt skin rip open and blood pour down his back, deep red against porcelain. He hit the floor with a scream. Pure agony. It had caught him. This was it. He was going to die here. The black creature loomed over him and he felt death approach. The burning fires of hell coming for him. Shadow tendrils engulfed him, covered his eyes, his mouth. He felt them reach into his open wound, pulling flesh further apart, ripping him open._

_And then it was gone._

_The tendrils retreated. The creature screeched behind him. He hid his face in the carpet, clinging desperately to the fibres, wishing it all away._

_Heat._

| 

   
  
---  
   
  
_It surrounded him. The tendrils returned. Choking him. Stealing the air from his lungs. He dared to look up. Light blinded him. Bright, orange, hot. A dark shape amongst it all. A tall figure, large ears protruding from its head._

_“Friend!”_

_The word left his lips before he even realised he’d spoken._

_Salvation._

_He was safe. Friend was here. Friend would get rid of the black creature. Get rid of Bad._

_The boy’s friend lifted him from the ground, carrying him away from the horror. Carrying him to safety. Away from the burning house and all who would perish within._

_A mother. A father. A daughter and sister._

_All eradicated in one chaotic night._


	4. 4

** 4. **

****

He woke alone, his bed damp with cold sweat. Ragged breathing echoed around the room, bouncing off tiled walls.

  
   
---  
  
Neither creature was there anymore. Just the dancing shadows cast by light from the doors only small window. Mundane, harmless shadow. He lay on his back, any trace of pain gone. His head pounded, the memory of That Night fresh in his mind, images of ash close to the surface, just under burnt flesh. The electric brought them back. Made them come out.

He sat slowly, his body swaying as he did, he was under-fed, weak; it made him uncoordinated, moving as if he were underwater. Slow, clumsy movements. The tiled floor was cold against his bare feet as he stood, wobbling slowly toward the door. No-one opened the door. No-one would. This was how it worked.

They shocked him. Then they left him. They submerged him in ice water. Then they left him. They gave him medicine. Then they left him. Trying to break him. Trying to make him tell. They’d take him to The Thing. They’d let it get him. Let it get his heart.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t let it get him.

 

It was hours before anyone came.

 He was still when they entered, lying on the tiles, using the cold to soothe his injuries. He hummed quietly to himself, eyes unblinking, as if he knew nothing of the sound, or the men entering the room. He simply lay. Slim fingers spread across tile, both almost the same shade of white.

Rough hands clasped his arms, dragging him away from the cool safety of the floor. The room grew smaller as it disappeared from his view, replaced by the same dingy corridor he saw almost daily. They took him down into the belly of the building. More questions would come. More pain. More memories.

More silence.

   
---  
  
He would never answer. Never tell them. All they knew were names.

Friend.  
Bad.  
The Thing.  
Big House.  
Bad Place.

All mumbled. He never meant to tell them.

 

This time was no different. The medicine came. Then the questions. Always the same.   


“What happened?”  
“Why did you kill them?”  
“Why weren’t you hurt?”  
“How did you get out?”

He didn’t know.  
He didn’t.  
He was.  
Friend.

 

As always with these sessions, the humanoid rabbit stood silently in the corner of the room. Watching. Protecting.

   
---  
  
“Help…Friend...” He whimpered. The medicine made him drowsy. Made the lights dance. The colours changed. All getting darker, the walls lost beneath layers of shadow. Faces melted, burnt to ash. The doctors approached. Their long coats merging with flesh, becoming one disfigured being. Clawed fingers reached out to him. Nails raking through tender flesh, drawing blood. Deep red liquid. It poured out over ripped skin. Dripping to the floor beneath, merging with the layers of grime covering yet more tiled floor. The boy screamed. The creatures continued their attack. Digging into his abdomen with their charred fingers, hunting for their prize. Friend was no-where to be seen. They had gotten him. Dragged him to the floor.

The room filled with the sounds of ripping flesh and pained screams. He struggled against them. Begging Friend to help him. Save him. Stop them. Friend never came.

It didn’t stop.

 

The sounds swelled to a deafening crescendo.

And then it stopped.   
The room returned to its former state. The light came back. The pain wasn’t there.

It was over.


	5. 5

 

** 5. **

He barely remembered the trip back to his room, his body draped over the shoulder of one of the men. All he saw was blurred floor as it passed beneath him. His bed, when it came, offered no relief. The mattress was hard, he wasn’t allowed a blanket in case he hurt himself, and the room was always cold. The boy frequently had marks peppered over his body from nights spent on the rough surface of the bed.

He remained still as he was laid out on the straw stuffed sack, exhausted after the days’ experience.

The men left.

The only sound in the room now was the boy’s soft breathing. His eyes shut, he lay on his back. Sill. Almost serene. Innocence vandalised by forcibly administered ‘treatments’.

 

Shadows swirled behind his eyes, lingering effects of the medicine still active inside him. Smoky tendrils parted. A thin, solid black gap into nothingness appearing in the centre of the boy’s vision. For a moment everything was still.   
Then the red came.

A bright, harsh light emitting from the darkness.

He heard words.

Barely a whisper. But definitely there.

Sounding from somewhere beyond the red.

 

“Off with his head…”

 

   
---  
   
---  
  
And then it fell.

The blade.  
From the black.

Swift and deadly.

His eyes snapped open.

 

Nothing.

An empty room. Just the ceiling above him.

 

His breathing paused for a second. He slipped into black. Losing his grip on the waking world.

 

 

_____________________________

 

_This case seemed to be an interesting one. There were very few albino children that he knew of. Challenging cases were the young man’s idea of heaven._

   
---  
   
---  
  
_As nice as it was to work from his home, in his own clinic, he longed for something more. Something bigger. Something more challenging. This case was exactly the thing._

_The document had been sent to him by a colleague, an old mentor who had thought perhaps the young man would study the case._

_He would do much more than that._


	6. 6

** 6. **

The men came again. The door opened. Hands grabbed him. Tore him from his slumber. He kicked out, trying to get away. Screaming in the hopes of being released.

He wasn’t released. Instead the men took him away from his room. Away from his quiet. Towards the water room. The room with the tubs and hoses. The cold water.

He wriggled and cried as the med undressed him, leaving him exposed. It took a great deal of effort from the men to cuff the naked boy to a metal frame at the end of the room.

This was bad. Not nice. Not good. No. No. No water. Please. No.

But it came. The water. Cold jets. Freezing drops pummelled his body. Already pale skin turning whiter and whiter with the cold. Within minutes, the boy’s extremities had turned an ashy shade of blue. He struggled against his restraints. The force of his movements shook the pipe frame surrounding him. His efforts, however, were fruitless. The jets continued. His screams were barely audible over the roar of water. Each second brought further pain. It burnt.

It seemed like hours before the onslaught ended.

His mind tried to wander. Tried to take him away from the pain. It only made it worse. Ice cold water became blistering flame. It scorched fragile skin. Exposed muscle and sinew. Torched him alive. Peeled back skin as easy as it would paper. Edges curled and turned to ash, flaking away when the weight became too much for its delicate structure. Close cropped hair crackled and singed. Merging with melting scalp.

Cries of agony mingled with those of unimaginable terror.

 

And then it ended.

A loud creak of a heavy metal lever alerted him of his place in the real world.

The remaining water on his exposed skin left him chilled to the bone. Shivering violently. His small frame hung exhausted from his restraints, too little strength left to stand.

He fell to the floor as the cuffs were removed from his wrists.

 

Back to the room now. He’d be left again.

That was how it worked. Water. Then alone.

  
  
  
---  
   
  
 

 

He was dressed again. Roughly. Clothes dragged on over wet skin, sticking, and pulling. He didn’t react. He couldn’t. Even as he was taken from the room, part led, part dragged. He was too exhausted.

He simply watched the walls pass. Back towards his room. To be left alone. Sleep. He could sleep again. See Friend. Talk to Friend.

He came back from his daydream. Something was wrong. He didn’t know these walls. They were different. He was lost. He couldn’t be lost. He was going back to Friend.

The walls were wrong.

They weren’t going the right way. He didn’t know these corridors. He didn’t remember them. He didn’t know where he was going. Where they were taking him.

 

The door before him looked unlike the others. It was a dark wooden door. Polished. Grand. This wasn’t somewhere he’d been before. This was new. This was wrong.

  
Inside was different too. The chair he was placed in was plush beneath him. It threatened to swallow him whole.

He was alone. That, too, was unusual. The boy glanced around the room, confused, he didn’t understand what was happening. Doctors should be here. There should be questions.

Instead silence.

   
---  
  
His legs bounced against the chair. Nervous energy shaking lingering water from chilled skin.

Wrong. Wrong. Bad. This wasn’t right.

He didn’t understand.

His breathing sped. Eyes flicked around the room. Searching out any hidden dangers. Looking for shadows.

They clung to the corners. Always there. Always watching. Waiting to get him. To engulf him. Consume him. Take him over.

The room began to shrink. Closing in on him. The air was sucked from his lungs. He gulped for oxygen. Desperate. The edges of his vision started to fade. A sickening feeling spread from the back of his skull, as if water was filling his head. He swayed in the seat. Control of his limbs seemed to be gone. His body twitched uncontrollably. He was gone. Any knowledge of where he was stayed hidden.

He began to hum. A lullaby.

Warped into something unrecognisable after the addition of laboured breathing and quiet sobs.

Thick white eyelashes fluttered as his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

He sank into the black. Unable to stop the shadows. Letting them take him.

 

“Alistair? Come back.”


	7. Chapter 7

** 7. **

His eyes opened before he had a chance to react, the words snapping him back to reality. It was new. He didn’t recognise it. The voice itself or the tone. Kindness. A want to help. Not something his was used to.

The boy, Alistair, looked up. To the owner of the voice. A young man, no older than his late twenties. He smiled softly, his hands warm atop Alistair’s own. The man had wrapped Alistair in a thin blanket shortly before speaking, which he pulled a little tighter now that the boy was fully alert and less likely to respond negatively to unannounced touch.

“Welcome back.”

His voice was smooth. Calm. Spoken with a hint of a smile. Alistair looked at him. Just looked. He wasn’t sure how to respond.

Friend.

The creature appeared. Stood ominously behind the desk. Watching. Head tilted. The rabbit, like Alistair was wet. Small drops of water rolled down his face, catching in fine whiskers as they fell. Friend didn’t appear to care. His eyes looked different. Ears too. The matted fur and charred wood that made up his body was more ragged than usual. Worn the manner of an old child’s toy, after the years had taken their toll. Fur wearing off. Becoming threadbare. His ears were missing flesh. His eyes, usually deep black pits, coloured only by the redness of irritated skin, shone with rage. It manifested as a white glare from the black of his eyes.

  
  
  
---  
  
Something was wrong.

Friend was angry. Defensive. His change of appearance had to mean that Bad was here. Something was going to happen. They were going to come. It wasn’t safe.

Alistair’s breath quickened once more, his eyes returning to scanning the room. Waiting for the creatures that wanted to kill him to come out from their hiding places.

“Doctor. Bad. Boy stay quiet. Don’t talk to Doctor.”

A warning. The Doctor was bad. Friend said. Not good. Not like Alistair thought.

The boy frowned. He didn’t understand. The Doctor had smiled. Smile was good? Friend smiled. Friend was good. Alistair didn’t understand.

“No.” He spoke. Seemingly forgetting that the Doctor was only inches away. His voice was quiet. Little more than a whisper. It cracked and wavered, confusion clearly audible. “Smile good.” He insisted, glaring at Friend across the room.

The Doctor glanced over to the desk. Alistair was clearly talking to someone other than him. He hoped, for the child’s sake, that someone was in fact stood at his new desk waiting to make introductions. Hand him another load of files. Anything.

Nothing was out of place at the desk. They didn’t have company.

 

The Doctor sighed, bowing his head a little.

 

  
  
  
---  
  
Alistair was still speaking.

 

“Yes, Alistair, smile good.”

 

The boy looked to him, eyes unblinking, he didn’t know what to say. Friend said not to speak. The Doctor said he was good.

Alistair didn't speak. Just stared at the floor. The shadows stopped moving when the man started speaking. Then they came back. Swirling. In the corners. Just out of sight. Always there. Never leaving. 

He looked back up. Pale eyes, almost violet met the Doctor. Dark. He was dark. But lightness. There was lightness too. Like Friend. Maybe he was like Friend. Maybe the Doctor was good. No. Not worth the chance. Friend said no. So no. Alistair looked back down. Pale eyes disappearing under brow bone. Still he bounced. Knees shaking. He swayed slightly in his seat. A ball of nervous energy.

The Doctor really hadn't expected a response. The notes had said he was mute to all but himself. "You don't have to speak, but I would like you to stand up one put your arms out so I can check you for bruises and injuries".

For this study to be worth it, he had to gain Alistair's trust. He would never get the boy to talk if he didn't trust him, that much was clear and by the looks of it, there was a good reason not to trust anyone here.

  
  
  
---  
  
The boy was still. Arms held tight to his body. Best way. Safest. No-one could get him if he kept tucked in. Bad things happen when people asked him to do things. Things that hurt. Alistair didn't want that. He didn't want to hurt. He looked up again. Facing the Doctor. Fear widened his eyes. He bit his lip. Clearly not a new habit, the boy's lips were split and scabbed.

The Doctor didn't seem to react to the lack of compliance like he knew many of his colleagues did. For the first time he picked up his pen and opened the boys file. Picking up a piece of paper, he turned it around so it was facing Alistair. On it, just the rough outline of the human body. "I want to mark any injuries I see on you on this chart. This way I can see if you keep on getting injured when you aren't with me. I am not going to hurt you, that, I can assure you". His voice wasn't soft, yet it wasn't firm either. Much like a parent still expecting their child to comply when given no explanation.

He still looked unsure. Nervous. Almost paranoid. Slowly, Alistair raised his left arm out to the Doctor. His hand quivered as he held it out. Should trust. No. Shouldn't. Don't. Bad. Bad. Don't. No touching. No looking. No. His mind raced. A fight between the rational and the irrational raged in his head. He couldn't concentrate. His hand wouldn't stay. It would drop. Then pain. Bad would happen if his hand dropped. Pain would come. No. Couldn't drop. Had to hold it. He looked at the Doctor. Meeting his eyes this time. Pleading silently. He needed help. He didn't know what to do. Friend wouldn’t tell him. The Doctor said he wouldn't hurt. Friend shook his head menacingly. But the Doctor was nice? Friend couldn't be wrong?

As Alistair raised his hand, the Doctor smiled warmly, putting his hand under the child’s. Gently he guided it out so he could inspect his arm. He made a point of not closing his fingers around the boy’s wrist, giving him the option of escape should he feel the need to do so.

  
  
  
---  
  
"Good boy" The Doctor murmured quietly as he reached for his pen once more, jotting down the clean bruising on the boy’s skin. Repeating the same movements, he checked Alistair's other arm.

"Will you stand up so I can see your legs, Alistair?"

He was gentle. He didn't hurt Alistair. Alistair didn't understand. He frowned. But despite his uncertainty he allowed the Doctor to guide his arms. Though they could barely be called arms. Pale, stick-like things. Bony and bruised. Down to his fingers. Nails bitten down far enough that it hurt. Red and bloodied from scratching both himself and the walls of his cell-like room.

Ignoring the rabbit, still behind the desk, Alistair stood. Swaying a little and once again refusing to look at the Doctor. His legs were in the same state as his arms, thin and pale. Bruises covered his knees and ankles, even extending to his toes. The boy had a habit of kicking out against staff, scraping his feet on walls and the floor as he did.

Every injury was taken a note of, without judgement or word.

"Thank you.”

No-one had ever said that before. Not to Alistair. The boy’s head tilted a little.

“Thank you…”

His voice was rough. Dry throat distorting the quiet speech. This was the first time since his admission to the institution that Alistair had spoken willingly.

 

The Doctor smiled.


	8. 8

8.

He stood and put his papers back on the table, pausing to brush the creases out of his trousers.

"Well done. That is a big step, Little Ghost"

The Doctor mused aloud as he turned around and retrieved a small chocolate bar from a drawer, carefully putting it down in front of the boy before returning to his own seat.

"That is for you. You may eat it while you are here, but you will not be forced to. However you will not be able to take it outside of this room. Do you understand?"

Alistair nodded, and looked at the chocolate. He didn't understand. No-one had been nice to him for so long. This was confusing. Was it really good? Could he eat it? Would he be hit for taking it?

He looked at the Doctor again for a moment before glancing back to the chocolate. Looking between the two, Alistair reached slowly for the small bar. He constantly checked back to the Doctor for reassurance as he started to unwrap his treat, taking great care not to rip the paper. He was almost silent at all times. Fearful to make a noise in case he was heard. Heard by the wrong people.

So, the boy had a sweet tooth. Interesting - A note was taken. It could be used to help build that trust. A trace of a smile pulled at his lips as the boy started to unwrap it.

"Would you like some milk, Alistair? Or perhaps some tea?"

The man was already standing and making his way over to the tea tray that had been bought in before either of them had arrived. Instead of pouring his own, he held up a teacup in one hand, a glass in the other and turned towards the child again.

"Which would you prefer?"

He purposefully worded his question so that the child wouldn't have to speak his answer.

Looking up from nibbling at the corner of his chocolate bar, Alistair came back to himself, remembering where he was. He blinked a few times, unfolding his legs from where they'd been tucked up onto the chair. He'd never been given a choice before. Usually lukewarm water was the only thing his was given. The boy hadn't tasted tea, or even milk since coming to the hospital.

After a moment's contemplation, he pointed to the glass.

"Very well."

This was the key. Not to force the boy to speak. Try to crack a person and you will break them. Turning away from Alistair he poured his own tea and the child's drink before heading back to the desk. Putting the glass down, the Doctor returned to his desk.

"Please, enjoy them Little Ghost."

 

* * *

 

_Refusal to speak is not, in this case, refusal to communicate. The boy is fearful of being heard._

_Kindness is key._

_His psyche is fragile. Too much would break him._

_Delusions are strong in his mind. However not all of these visions appear to be dangerous._

_Handle this one carefully._

_Interesting._

 

* * *

 

Alistair didn't understand. The boy looked around the room. Watching the shadows move. Listening to the groans of the building. Creaking and scraping, tapping and low, guttural moans. He always heard them. Things moving in the dark. He was safe there. He had Friend. Out in the light he had no-one. But the dark had its enemies too. Horrific figures conjured for shadow and ash. Burning eyes coming for him from the black.

Scribbling.

An unfamiliar sound among the many others the boy was used to. Back in the room. The noise got louder. The Doctor. Writing. He was back. Safe. He had chocolate. He had milk. He was comfortable.

Slowly he found a little more confidence. Eating and drinking freely. As if he had forgotten where he was. As if this wasn't a hospital. As if the fire had never happened.

He looked normal.

The Doctor watched the child eat and drink, a slightly proud smile on his lips as he noted down exactly how much Alistair consumed. Just that small act of kindness seemed to have already calmed the tremors. Good. Perhaps much of this boy's condition was due to the trauma he received while institutionalised rather than the trauma of the fire itself.

"In here you are free to do as you wish, child. You may eat and drink, speak if you choose. How about this-"

He sat forward, gently pushing a pencil towards his patient along with a notebook.

"Anything you want or need, write it or draw a picture and I will make sure you have it. Alright?"

The notebook came as a surprise to Alistair.

Again, at the slightest of movements, he froze. Startled into stillness, the boy simply stared at his Doctor.

He nodded a little, reaching out to touch the notebook. He seemed to be gaining more confidence the longer he was in the room. Once the Doctor was seated and everything became settled again, Alistair slid from his chair, moving to the floor. He took the notebook and pencil from the table before reaching for his milk.

The boy lost himself again, this time in his own scribbling noises. Tongue poking out slightly, seemingly ignorant of the Doctor's presence, he drew. Scribbling wildly on the paper. Marks dark and sure. Shapes started to form. Almost human. Elongated. Childish in their appearance. There was a darkness to Alistair's drawing.

A darkness the pale boy seemed oblivious to.

Drinking his tea quietly, he watched the boy over the edge of the bone china. Had no one ever been kind to this child before? He seemed too starved of it that even the smallest gesture seemed to mean the world.

How tragic.

His brows creased slightly, accentuating the wrinkles starting to there. Carefully placing the cup down, he opened one of the lower drawers of his desk. This desk was his little box of tricks... Something to help every occasion.

"Here"

He cleared his throat as he sat up and smiled, holding out a small wooden box of crayons.

"Use the colours if you like, Little Ghost"

Alistair's eyes lit up. He ran to grab the box from the Doctor before resettling himself on the floor, adding flames and smoke to his drawing with as much innocence as anyone would colour a pleasant landscape.

The child drew for a little longer before stopping abruptly, staring off at the wall.

He rocked back and forth quickly, humming lowly, rhythmically, in time with his movements.

His hands began moving again.

Quickly. Erratically.

With a frenzied desperation.


	9. 9

** 9. **

That was mildly disturbing. He watched the boy so peacefully draw before suddenly being washed over by hysteria. Frowning, he was immediately on his feet before dropping down before the boy. Even when looking directly into his eyes it was clear to see Alistair didn't see him.

"Alistair?"

He made no attempt to touch the boy. No, he didn't want to set off a violent episode.

"You are safe. You are here with me, your new doctor. Nothing is going to hurt you here" he soothed, just sitting in front of the child.

"It’s alright. You are safe. I'm here"

 

Alistair kept rocking.

 Kept drawing.

Unaware of the Doctor.

Locked in his drawing.

The colours were all wrong. It appeared to be the room around him, the shapes were all recognisable, but everything was shades of red. Burning yet still pristine.

As quickly as the episode had started, it stopped.

 Alistair was still.

Friend had gone.

 He frowned. Confused. He didn't understand. He didn't know what happened. Tears began to well in his eyes.

He started to shiver.

As Alistair snapped into stillness, the Doctor's frown deepened.

 

"Can you hear me, Little Ghost?"

 

 There was a hint of worry in his voice as he folded his own legs underneath him. As tears began to well the doctor chewed his lip thoughtfully.

The boy was disassociating.

All he had had to see was the flames in the picture and the quick breakdown to come to his diagnosis.

 

"It’s alright. You aren't in trouble"

 

Alistair whimpered quietly, the first sound he had made besides the humming.

He didn't know where to look.

He couldn't look at the drawing.

He couldn't.

He couldn't look at the Doctor.

 He didn't know if he'd be allowed. He didn't know what the man would do to him.

Despite the Doctor's calming tone and reassurance, Alistair still didn't trust him fully. He wasn't Friend. He was a stranger. And Friend wasn't there to help him.

Alistair was alone and scared.

He didn't know what was happening to him. He didn't know why.

 All he knew was what Friend told him.

 The other doctors were trying to hurt him. To take him back to the big house. Back to the ash. Ask him questions. Make him hurt. Take him to the shadows.

Alistair realised he was sobbing. Tears rolled down pale cheeks, collecting in almost white eyelashes.

 

Pulling his pocket square from its rightful place, slowly to make sure not to startle the child, he gently wiped away the tears with the silk.

"Would you like to sleep Alistair? You can sleep over there if you like."

 The worried smile returned as he nodded towards a nearby couch, adorned with a blanket and pillow.

"I will be right here to make sure no one hurts you."


End file.
